


The Art of a Quill

by Zeahart03



Category: Joaquin Phoenix - Fandom, Quills (2000)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeahart03/pseuds/Zeahart03
Summary: Lucille Abrams is a young woman who likes to travel abroad, trying out ideas for her stories. However last year, all hope she had in love was lost when she saw her fiance with another woman in Paris, France. Finally, after a year, Lucy decides to move into a small cottage in Saint-Maurice, France to try and focus on her latest novel. However, Lucy discovers something odd about the forest nearby. What happens when Lucy gets a bit too close to the mysterious force lurking nearby?
Relationships: Abbe du Coulmier/Lucille Abrams, Abbe du Coulmier/Oc, OC/Canon - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	The Art of a Quill

_October 18th 1983_

_I've been traveling abroad, again. This time to Saint-Maurice, France. I've been thinking about actually moving there, but since my last visit, with well, Toby, it hasn't been easy. The City of Love is just a myth. I still remember my engagement and how it ended. It was all tears and heartbreak. God, I must've looked so pathetic, but alas, here I go. My flight leaves at noon tomorrow, tell mom and dad that I love them with all my heart._

_Au avoir little brother,_

_Lucy Abrams_

  
  


The tapping on a typewriter was the only noise filling the room as the young woman typed a letter to her family.

Lucille Abrams was a woman of very particular tastes. She greatly enjoyed writing as her passion.

She frequently traveled from her home in England to America. She tried publishing her work, however none of it ever really sold, mostly due to the smutty material on it. 

Lucille saw it as something more than just pointless smutty material. She saw the romance and intimacy between the characters she wrote. Her ex-fiance, Tobias, would go on and on about how her stories weren't real literature, and people who read them were just mindless perverts who didn't have any real sex life.

No matter how much Toby discouraged her, Lucille still wrote her stories. Just a few years ago, Toby and her went to Paris to celebrate their engagement, only to find out that Toby was meeting his mistress in the night. He ended up getting with this sleazy French girl, leaving Lucy heartbroken in the hotel.

Her brother, Louis, was concerned for Lucy's well being, and started writing letters to her not too long ago.

Lucy smiled at each letter dearly. 'At least someone cares about me.' She thought.

Her flight would leave at noon tomorrow, and she'd hardly done any packing. She turned to the pile of clothes lazily tossed to the floor.

Lucy sighed, pushing herself away from her desk, and walked over to the clothes, then stuffing them in her suitcase.

  
  


The very next day, Lucy was on her flight well on her way to France. Her headphones were in her ears alongside her walkman, secured in her hand. A mother with a screaming child in her arms sat next to Lucy.

She turned up the volume on her Walkman and closed her eyes, embracing the long flight. 

Before Lucy knew it, the flight was over, and she happily left the Paris airport. After visiting France, and studying it for such a long time, Lucy became familiar with the language at hand. Speaking French was never a problem for Lucy, however, her fiance was very dull when it came to speaking other languages. He barely put in the effort. Lucy didn't want to think about Toby now, despite this being the very place she felt destroyed just a year ago.

She hailed the nearest taxi, and stuffed her luggage in the car.

"First time in Paris?" The french cab driver asked.

"No," Lucy giggled, "I've been here plenty of times."

"Just can't stay away," the cab driver chuckled, "I understand. Where to, madame?"

"Bourg, Saint-Maurice, please." Lucy requested.

The cab driver nodded, driving up towards a white stone road.

After an hour or so, the driver rode up to a small cottage at the edge of the town. Lucy played the cab driver, claimed her stuff, and walked into the cottage. The keys for the cottage were laid there next to a small potted plant alongside a small note.

_Thank you for renting Le Petit Jardin. We hope you enjoy your stay here in France. Remember to pay rent on time. If you need anything call this number_

_XXX - XXX - XXX_

_\- Claire Dubois_

Lucy placed the small note in her pocket, before unlocking the door.

Inside, the cottage was much larger than the outside. After a long and tiring flight, Lucy sat on the couch, getting out her large and bulky typewriter. She sat there trying to concentrate on the first page, but she had no ideas. 

Time and time again typing words and ripping up pages. Lucy groaned. Perhaps she wasn't inspired enough. Lucy began to look around the cottage, stumbling upon an attic. 

The attic was dust and littered with cobwebs. Lucy found a small light switch, brightening up the small dark room. In the corner of her eye, Lucy saw a small crate. She opened up the crate to reveal a few dozen books.

They all appeared to have the same author. The Marquis de Sade. Lucy picked up one of the books, Justine as it was called, taking it back downstairs with her.

Later that night, Lucy flipped through the pages of the book, Justine, slightly blushing at the contents. It was so raunchy, so seductive, and so incredibly enticing. It enchanted her, just by the way the pages stuck. 

Of course, there was one flaw Lucy could see in each page. There wasn't any love or any emotion behind what was being portrayed in the story.

Where was the heart in the story? After a while, Lucy just couldn't wrap her head around it.

She put down the book, turning off the lamp next to her and closed her eyes.

  
  


The next day, Lucy woke up to birds bickering in her ear. It was just enough to wake her up. She groaned and stretched, embracing the daylight. Lucy looked over to the book that laid there on her chest. She picked it up, placing it on the nearest shelf.

Lucy stumbled out of her nightly clothing, and put on a pair of jeans with a violet top. She walked out of her small cottage, and hiked down a small trail that led to a forest with a suspicious arc.

Lucy felt compelled to walk through it, but was stopped by the shouting of a man.

"You, mademoiselle, what on earth are you doing?" The man yelled from his balcony.

"I apologize, sir. I didn't know this was your private property." Lucy shouted back.

"It's not mine. People go into those woods, then never return. There's a force, mademoiselle. A force you wouldn't want to mess with." The man said, just before disappearing into his home.

"Wait? What the hell do you mean?" Lucy tried calling the man back, but he didn't answer.

Lucy looked back at the forest, still feeling drawn to it. It was almost like it was a vortex pulling her forward. Lucy turned around, heading back to the cottage.

Lucy's stay in Saint-Maurice wasn't as luxurious as she had planned it to be. It had been a few weeks since she settled in the cottage, and she still barely more than a few words on a page. 

She turned her head to the book, Justine, and how it sat there taunting her. What was stopping her from writing?

She desperately wanted to write a romance novel, to prove to herself that she didn't need Toby, but it just wouldn't come to her.

She sat in her bedroom. The only light in the room was the flickering lightbulb above her. Lucy sat at her desk for hours, just staring at the blank page.

A rustling was heard from the back of her cottage. Lucy's attention was turned away from the page.

She walked outside the cottage, following the trail again, up to the arched forest.

The moon shined above the malevolent force that lurked deep within the woods.

'Was it all true?' Lucy thought to herself, treading closer to the omnipotent threat. All that was covering her was a single blanket and her old worn down nightie. The only shoes she wore were blue bunny slippers that were a bit too small for her.

She felt so vulnerable, so terrified, yet so intrigued.

She kept walking deeper, and deeper into the unknown, until she felt a gust of wind knock her off her feet, and hitting the ground hard.


End file.
